Reflections of a Bin Bag Boy

Life Skills

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Chapter 4 - Life Skills

Bullying can become entrenched in the culture of any organisation or institution. Where there is a gathering or connection of sentient beings, overtly or covertly, sophisticatedly or crudely, bullying may become a normalized feature. It can be excused on the basis of colour, ethnicity, geography, age, weight, income, ability – whatever. Power, essentially is the weapon that is yielded by the perpetrator on the victim. The methods by which this weapon is used and manifests itself, are too numerous to account. So too are the affects on the victims of this virus.

A cursory glance into your own past, own family formations, friendship groups, and work situations, to name just a few, I am sure, and uncomfortable as this may make you feel, will enable you to reveal its persistent and resilient nature. Perhaps, if you are brave enough, you may even identify your own role in perpetuating or colluding with it. It may morph, shift, be re-directed and be differently resourced; yet, its presence will inevitably be alive and active. You may want to challenge my assertion, and as the reader, you have every right to do so.

Woolsten House was a fertile breeding ground, whereby, bullying could easily root, be nourished, cultivated and blossom into a dazzling array of ugly, vile and cruel actions and practices.

Make no mistake; I am not being sanctimonious about this. Over the three years I lived in this house, I was to learn to play my part in this game of making other children’s life’s as torturous as my moral framework and mental capacity was to allow. I took great delight if successfully executed. As, indeed, many of my carefully crafted strategies were.

However, in the early stages, not knowing the ropes, and being the newest and youngest, I was the natural target. In these early days, I remember having experiences with two lads in particular.

The oldest lad in this house was called Andy. His nick- name was Tank. He had been assigned the task, by the staff, of being my “Buddy”. Help me to settle in. He was a ginger haired, blue eyed; pale and freckled face mass of blubber. He had an expressionless, dopey and vacant expression most of the time. He breathed heavily through his open saliva filled mouth. He spoke in a nasally slow fashion. His movements were slow and appeared to take much of his energy. When he walked he lurched from side to side and his arms would hardly move. It was gorilla like. Thinking about it, I don’t think this was to look tough, I think it was the result of trying to prevent the uncomfortable chaffing of his enormous thighs from rubbing together.

His fat, sausage like fingers with nails encrusted with dirt, found their way round my slender neck on several occasions. His hands were cold and clammy. Pinned against a wall or other firm object, he would cough up phlegm, and launch his thick brown or yellow excretion into my face. Until I learnt better, some of it ended in my mouth.
Almost nose to nose he would smile; displaying his yellow and plaque caked teeth and inflamed red gums.

Flapping his rubbery wet lips, he would whisper variations of “Remember, you bastard little freak, I’m the cock of this house”. His breath stank. I would try and pull my head back as far as I could and hold my breath to avoid breathing in and registering the rancid smell. Every time, this interaction finished with a powerfully delivered punch in my stomach. You know by now that I would not cry. Of course, his attacks would always take place in some remote place or corridor of the house, away from members of staff – including Mike.

I would go to great lengths to avoid Andy. To do this for any meaningful period of time was impossible. In the sparsely furnished communal dining area, Andy would choose to sit next to me. Not out of any attempt to make me feel welcomed into the house, or through a noble motive of trying to strike up friendship. Forks were stabbed into my thighs from under the table, my delicate toes were stomped on, and thigh flesh pinched, masses of pepper accidentally spilt over all my food or thrown into my eyes, spit in my drinks, and so on.

I’d already gleaned that greater punishment would follow if you complained to the busy and distracted staff. I suspect they turned a blind eye to avoid confrontation. It was an unspoken rule that had been established between all the lads, not to involve staff and transgression of this rule would bring severe consequences from all the rest of them.

Entry in to your bedroom was strictly supposed to be by permission and invite only.

However, I found a bloody and mutilated pigeon under my pillow. I was particularly distressed because I was developing an affiliation with birds and admired their freedom. I buried this bird in a plastic bag near the stream running by the forest. My books that I had accumulated at John and Linda’s were ripped up and strewn across my bedroom. My favourite board games were destroyed, stamped on, crushed and parts broken beyond repair. Toothpaste was regularly smeared over my sheets and pillows. There were lots more incidents. How did I know it was Andy? He went out of his way to tell me so. He knew, I would not complain and share this information with the staff.

I had to tolerate Andy’s relentless persecution for about a year, before he was shipped on to a unit specializing in working with children with severe behavioural problems.

Like many other children I encountered, I question what kind of adult Andy ended up becoming. I fear the worst in most cases. I hope he and others never produced children. I include myself in this.

Moving on to another dominant character in the house, Chris was another master of the art of bullying. But he deployed a very innovative and different tact. At twelve years old he was younger than Andy. He was much smarter, less clumsy, and actually much more effective in getting under my skin and into my brain. This was achieved much more efficiently and effectively than any of the professional adults had managed to achieve thus far.

I would describe Chris, like myself, as being unusually small for his age. He also wore glasses. They appeared too big for his face, they hung precariously and lop- sided off his nose. He was always trying to straighten them. He was painfully thin. On the odd occasion when I saw him without his top on, I really could count his ribs. His shoulder blades jutted out revealing deep cavities. He operated with a nervous energy that made it very difficult for him to sit still or concentrate on anything for very long. He walked and talked very fast, darting about the house like he was constantly searching for something. Maybe he was. He seemed desperately uneasy with himself. His slim, sharp featured pointy face easily became animated, with his intensely dark eyes frantically darting from one object to another. He would blink uncontrollably. The left corner of his mouth constantly twitched. His skeletal like fingers were always moving or playing with objects, even when he was supposed to be still. I think he had totally earned his nick- name of Ferret.

Chris never hit me or physically abused me in any way; in fact, I don’t recall him hitting any of the other lads. Physical intimidation was not his forte. Like a guided missile he was able to tune into and clearly identify your emotional vulnerabilities, of which there was, in my case, an abundance to play with. I was easy pickings for someone like Chris.

How he acquired his initial knowledge to this day, I have no idea. I shared my thoughts, feelings and experiences with no-one. Maybe some of it was guess work, informed from his own experiences or from others being in the care system. But to give him credit, and if he had only put it to positive use, he was a gifted reader of people.

Our interactions were always swift, before he moved on to his next victim. You couldn’t describe them as conversations. I was stunned into listening mode. They were more like a barrage of acutely accurate statements. Again, we were always alone when this happened, to begin with in the communal living room, where the only TV could be found. A place, like most of the other lads, I eventually learnt to avoid. He would seek me out anyway, wherever I happened to be. An example, of one of his early disorientating blasts follows;

“Your mother didn’t want ya, did she?”

“She’s a fucked up mess, isn’t she?”

“I bet she’s a dirty whore and a filthy smack head”

“You’re a fucked up mess that nobody else wants either, aren’t ya?”

“You know nobody in here likes ya, don’t ya?”

“I bet you’re a fuckin, little dirty queer as well”

“Don’t think that your getting out of here soon, nobody’s gonna want to take you on without gettin paid well”

“Get it into ya head Nancy boy – you don’t deserve a good life, you don’t deserve anything”

“We’re gonna make it hell for ya in here, you know that don’t ya?”

He would shoot off his series of effortlessly delivered one liners, score, stay for a few seconds to savour his victory, Smile, then quickly move off laughing. I know and felt he got great pleasure from landing these emotional punches.

I still wonder how much thought Chris gave to come up with these? Did he think for ages before he came in for the kill? Was it spontaneous? You and I can only speculate.

I was far more unnerved by Chris than I was of Andy. I was happy, when nine months later he was moved from the house. I do not know where he ended up, and genuinely didn’t care.

The other lads in the house generally, actively ignored me and each other. Yes, I would get the occasional dig in the ribs, tripping up, name calling, dirty and threatening looks etc. But the rest of the lads were to frightening degrees, lost in their own world that they presumably were trying to understand and deal with. They just seemed to float around and exist in the house, like specters, barely interacting, silently surviving and waiting to be moved.

It was clear that Woolsten House played a holding function for transitory children anticipating to be moved - to who knew where? I am not convinced even Social Services gave this a great deal of thought. I felt on the edge of their core work. We were the forgotten children. As long as we were being housed, fed, clothed and educated, they seemed happy.

This was certainly the impression I got from Pauline, my own Social Worker. Her visits to see me were few and far between. I think by this point she had more pressing priorities and children on her case book to consider. She always seemed eager to leave Woolsten House as quickly as possible. It’s conceivable that she was also affected by the oppressive atmosphere of the house.

There was an almost tangible heaviness, emptiness, sadness and loneliness that wafted around Woolsten House like invisible smoke. Laughter, giggles or excited voices were very rarely heard. When the kitchen cook dropped something heavy in the kitchen, the noise would echo around the house, startle people, and then be quickly swallowed up by the dominant and consuming silence.

Woolsten House never intended to provide a family home or comparable atmosphere. It was meant to contain and house the children and young people that couldn’t easily be placed anywhere else in the care system. Children that no-body else wanted or could handle – and we all knew it.

The only person that seemed to be able to have any affect on this flatness was Mike. At least, this was the case for me. He was the spark that could ignite damp timbre. He was the enigmatic figure that allowed me to focus on the light that he emitted, helping me to ignore the surrounding darkness. My mood immediately lifted when his work shift began. For more reasons than one.

Even though I hadn’t dared to share with Mike the level of bullying I was encountering, he had a sense of what was happening. Like he had promised, I had no doubt that if I wanted him to, he could have sorted Andy and Chris out, and get them to back off.

No, I wanted Mike to see me as strong, not weak. I wanted a relationship with him based on admiration, not pity. I needed him to view me as an equal, adult like, not some poor pathetic needy child. I intended for him to speak to me like he did the other members of his staff team. I wanted him to share things with me that he couldn’t do with the other children in the house. I wanted a special place in his mind and heart. I wanted him for me. I set out to capture him.

I am now not sure who snared who in our relationship. Maybe, we both got what we desired. But, I will be returning to Mike in greater detail later in this chapter.

In my first few months living at Woolsten House it become crystal clear that routines were God, and were to be obeyed at all cost, if this organization was to run smoothly.

Bedtime, bathing, eating, washing clothes, tidying the building, free time, transport to school, homework, TV time, staff hand over of shifts, meetings with Social Workers and others, organized activities and trips out, allocation of pocket money, where and when you could spend it, were all organized in minute detail and prescribed to maintain order and stability.

This was obviously a pattern of work that was fully grooved and embedded in the culture of Woolsten House long before I arrived. You were fully expected to slot straight into it. It was all too easy to predict what one day was to be like compared to the slight variation another day may bring.

This pattern did not vary, even slightly, in the three years that I lived at this institution.

This way of working certainly did provide stability and predictability. But the stifling lack of creativity and spontaneity I am sure helped to create the mind numbing and Zombie like states that some of the children drifted around Woolsten House displaying.

I ached for difference. I yearned to break through the transparent chains that bound me to the suppressive culture and routines that worked so well for Woolsten House. I wanted to hear and play loud music. I wanted to hear many people chatting, shouting, screaming and arguing. I wanted frenzied parties with people getting drunk and dancing wildly. I wanted people coming knocking on the door unexpectedly, for a chat, like normal homes. No, order, compliance and silenced reigned. Everything was planned and organized, Military style, on my behalf and for all the other children.

I felt like I was suffocating, my energy and personality little by little, was fading away. I was beginning to loose the sense of my core identity.

I had to find a coping strategy, or as time went by I could have lost myself completely. I was already becoming more withdrawn and introspective. Even my new teacher had pointed this out at my new school, which was situated in the nearby village. I was too brain dead to be disruptive or challenging.

I had to do something that I had some control over. I created three coping methods; the first was definitely related to dealing with the monotony of living in the dullness of Woolsten House. It was drawing and painting pictures in my allocated personal time. The second was fuelled by what I now think to be a collection of influencing factors. It was periodic practices of self- harming. I didn’t then know the term for it, but the relief it offered was ecstasy. The third was the pursuit of, and the actual sexual connection with Mike. This was to become my favourite activity. Again, on reflection, this last activity was influence and shaped by many forces.

On my tenth birthday I was given by the staff at Woolsten House; paper, felt- tips, pencil crayons and a set of water colour paints with brushes. There was no party. They were just handed to me on the morning of my birthday by one off the distant staff – I think she was called Jane. The Birthday card simply read “Happy Birthday from all at Woolsten House”. No kisses at the bottom.

The staff made it clear by their focus on household tasks that it was not within their remit to engage or work with the children.

They could daily be seen gathered in the meeting room with files and other paper work, discussing intensely with concerned and scrunched up faces. But how this related to us, I can now only make a slightly informed guess. They always seemed busy, but that didn’t include time spent with the children.

Mike, my special Key Worker was the exception. He found quality time for me. It was like no other staff member came near me because they knew Mike was taking care of me.

Anyway, I digress. I initially stuffed my art materials that I got for my Birthday under my single bed in the corner of my room. I placed an old jumper placed over them so Chris couldn’t find and destroy.

I can’t recall at exactly what point, but I started to use them.

Many evenings, at the allowed time, and before lights out, I would get out my materials, sit on my bedroom floor and immediately start creating. Sometimes I knew what I wanted to represent, at other times, I free flowed and went with whatever my mind and hand felt compelled to produce.

My creations were for my eyes only. Depending on my mood and mental state, they ranged from high energy and frenziedly executed masses of shapes, colours, and abstract images, to attempts, from my memory, to bring real life objects, accurately translated onto my paper.

I am sure any Child Psychologist would have relished seeing and analyzing these, to provide glimpses into the workings of my inner world. However, I made sure that after the completion of my creations they were ripped into the smallest of pieces possible and placed in the bin, next to the huge fire place, in my room. I once very nearly went to show Mike one of my drawings, but something pulled me back.

Similar to when I am writing these experiences for you, I would completely loose myself and become fully consumed by the task. The state was almost dream or trance like; no other thoughts could penetrate the all consuming focus or were allowed to deviate from the task in hand.

I don’t fully know if this time allowed me an indulgence to escape the reality of the world that currently contained me, or that I needed on outlet for the groundswell of emotions and thoughts buried deep in my sub-conscious. Possibly, it was a combination or a dance of the two. All I really know was that after I completed my representations, I experienced a brief sense of respite from the ever present tension that racked and sometimes actually hurt my body. Head aches at this point in my life were a common feature. I didn’t complain, I thought everyone else must have them. I would often be able to get to sleep a little easier after my creations. My body felt a little more at ease with itself. The aches in my shoulders, legs and hands, also seemed to lessen.

Drawing and painting is still an activity that I still practice. But as I have said previously and although it doesn’t deter me, I know that I am crap. This is not a self- esteem issue, or modesty, it is a fact.

Again, in the solitude of my room, always in the evening, I went through sporadic periods of consciously marking my flesh, to varying depths of incision. Sometimes it did bleed quite badly, but these were the most satisfying times. I would use a variety of sharp objects, more often the blade from my pencil sharpener or sometimes things like unraveled paper clips. In delving deeply into my past, I have yet to determine a pattern or triggers as to why I felt compelled to self- harm at particular points. The thought would simply enter my head and I would follow it through. I carried on cutting into my late teens, but I still get the occasional urge even now.

I was canny enough to do it on places of my body that would be difficult to see and give it enough healing time to avoid detection, before I did it again. I was very skilled in this. Maybe, people did notice, if they did it wasn’t brought to my attention. If they would have noticed, I would have still carried on doing it. What could they do? I had the control over this. I still carry some of the scars on various parts of my body to this very day.

I had no fear about opening wounds on my body, in actual fact I was intrigued and excited. My hands would tremble with anticipation and my breathing would become shallow and rapid as I approached the chosen spot on my body.

Each cut was unique and brought about different results. I experimented with the positioning, length and depth of the cutting, and eagerly awaiting the final results. I was particularly impressed with the zig zag like pattern I created on the inside of my right thigh. It produced masses of blood and a beautiful shape. The blood was easily mopped up with toilet tissue and dispensed with by flushing it down the lavatory on my landing.

The only down side to this particular cut was when having sex with Mike. It hurt badly at first. His weight and coarse thighs would rub forcibly against it. He didn’t know this, and certainly couldn’t see it because when he entered my bedroom in the middle of the night, the lights were already turned off. After the event, I don’t know if he spotted any blood on himself – but I am sure he could have thought this had been caused by one of the sexual practices that he most enjoyed and that I knew produced bleeding. Anyway, a bit, or even a lot of pain, through whatever means it was produced, was a price worth paying to have him with me.

I am jumping ahead. My sex with Mike didn’t just suddenly happen. The lead up involved a six month process with him taking me for walks and little chats around the grounds of the House. He would also walk passed me and rub my shoulder and gently stroke my cheek with an intimacy that was beyond what I had felt before. When he sat with me for one to one reviews he stroked my hand and played with my fingers and then he would conclude the meeting with a kiss on my forehead.

He told me we had a special relationship that we must keep between ourselves. He hadn’t had to tell me this.

He would enter my bedroom, at first sit on the end of my bed, then eventually edge his way up so he was sat looking down on my wide hopeful and expectant eyes. He would then stroke and play with my hair, I found my head automatically turning into his hand and nestling my cheeks in his callused palm. He knew he had me at this point. He concluded, not with a kiss on my forehead, it progressed onto my lips. At first these kisses were brief, then eventually more prolonged and mutually shared. I knew what he wanted and he knew what I was willing to accept.

He must have done this before; he was very confident and accomplished. He was undoubtedly an expert in the grooming process. I now ponder how many other children he had used to perfect his seduction techniques before he used them with me.

I was more than aware that Mike worked regular sleep over shifts. One of these shifts began a pattern that was to become firmly established for the rest of the time I spent at Woolsten House.

One night, at approximately 2am in the morning I was awakened to find Mike standing next to my bed. No words were exchanged. We both knew what was to happen next. Mike slowly peeled off his clothes, pulled back my bedclothes and entered my bed, already aroused and naked. He smelt delicious. He was breathing heavy as he unbuttoned and removed my pyjamas. I held my breath as he took off my under wear.

This first session was short. I was left wanting more. Over time, as I became more confident and accomplished, they would last for hours. Every avenue was to be explored.

My encounters with Mike were to eventually take a very unusual and totally unexpected twist that sent both our worlds into a very different dimension. This was to make life at Woolsten House even more complex.



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